


from my mouth to yours

by valleyofmidnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Feminization, First Kiss, Kinda, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Season/Series 01, Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Smoking, Underage Sex, Weecest, blood mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valleyofmidnight/pseuds/valleyofmidnight
Summary: "First days always suck, Sammy."He nods, closes his eyes. He hadn't slept the last night, too nervous over another place he would have to hide within himself. Another shell, engineered for its environment just like the ones before it. But at least, he told himself, at least he had Dean. One person, one single place where he didn't have to do that, where he didn't have to polish himself for consumption. He could be consumed how he is.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 22
Kudos: 174





	from my mouth to yours

This is the third new school in six months, the third time introducing himself to a crowd of grim faces. All of them alienating, all of them full of a cloudy judgment. Sam, in his hand-me-down clothes and scuffed shoes, with his fading bruises and thinning wrists, stands at the front of the class, feeling like a bait dog tied to a post. 

No one makes an effort to talk to him. In some schools, there's someone weird enough and outcasted enough to take a chance on the new kid, but it's too late in the year to hope for any of that. The school's too settled. He holds his breath the entire day, trying to shrink in his chair, disappear during lunch. 

He finds Dean out behind the school, leaning up against a wall and smoking like it was still something cool. Sam can't blame him. Dean had picked up all of his ideas of smooth and cool from their dad, dregs of an 80s era rebellion that fell flat in modern color. He wears their dad's old army jacket, hums Metallica guitar solos, and of course, smokes the same brand as him. But on the edges of all of the traits he appropriated from John Winchester is a familiar tinge of himself-- A vague irony or a certain ridiculousness, like he knew not to take it too seriously. 

He keeps his eyes forward as Sam walks over to him, keeps his foot up on the wall, his hands in his pocket. There was a chill in the air that faded the closer Sam got to him, replaced with the unmistakable warmth of their bond, formed in the chaos of a life on the road with their drunk of a dad, cultivated in these quiet spaces between their long road trips. Sam never had to hold his breath around Dean. His lungs became free birds, their wings rising and falling easily, unrestrained. 

"First days always suck, Sammy."

He nods, closes his eyes. He hadn't slept the last night, too nervous over another place he would have to hide within himself. Another shell, engineered for its environment just like the ones before it. But at least, he told himself, at least he had Dean. One person, one single place where he didn't have to do that, where he didn't have to polish himself for consumption. He could be consumed how he is. 

Dean turns and looks at him, cigarette hanging from his mouth like he was some anti-hero cowboy, some movie star. Put him in one of those massive cowboy hats and some boots and he could play opposite Paul Newman. And he'd be far enough away that Sam wouldn't feel bad about the way he stared at him. 

Sam thinks a lot about them not being brothers. He thinks a lot about Dean being some complete stranger, just another boy he meets in school, someone who won't remember his name a week after he leaves town. In that world, where Sam's another version of himself, crafted for Dean, he would be a little awkward but cool, teasing, a perfect nymphet. And Dean would kiss him behind the bleachers, pure persuasion. He would crawl inside Sam and leave a piece of himself there.

He thinks a lot about being a girl. He can't think about it for very long.

The Dean standing next to him, cowboy-cool, already had so much of himself in Sam, down to their DNA. Sam can breathe fine, but he can hardly speak, worried the wrong response would trigger an avalanche of confession, worried all of his dreams of unrelation would trip over his tongue at Dean's feet, and that Dean wouldn't understand, that he'd be hurt. Or that he'd recognize that Sam is, in fact, not the same type of freak as him.

Sam stares down at his shoes. It's hard to adjust himself to normal trains of thought after getting caught up in the image of an unrelated Dean pushing his tongue into his mouth. 

"Anyone picking on you so far?" 

Sam grins, shakes his head. Dean walked him into class personally, a warning to any boys that would bully him, any girls that would tease him. Sam has a big, strong older brother who looks like a half-cocked pistol and struts around with so much confidence, his aura comes off him in waves. It didn't help Sam's go-to strategy of invisibility, but it does keep any potential buzzards off his back. 

Dean drops his cigarette to the ground, grinds it under his boot. "Good. I'd kill 'em."

It makes Sam's heart skip. The unwavering protectiveness born of blood and kindled by bond. Dean is the perfect older brother in those situations. Sam could live a thousand lifetimes and never get tired of the roughness in his voice when he makes threats, the sincerity and gravity his words were soaked in. 

It doesn't matter, Sam thought, it doesn't matter that Dean's his brother. He wants Dean's tongue against his anyway. He wants to suck the blood out of the sores in Dean's mouth.

Sam rises to his tip-toes, leans close to Dean, and kisses his cheek, sweet and small. A perfect Lolita kiss, a thank you. Sam turns on his heels and walks away, not even looking for Dean's reaction. 

\--

The AC keeps busting, rattling like a dying man, doing nothing to help the suffocating heat of the motel room. Dean took his shirt off hours ago, is near taking off the rest of his clothes and walking around buck-naked. Sam keeps telling him not to, overstating his disgust, threatening to burn the room down. 

Dean is not thinking of the kiss, the hypocrisy.

Dean doesn't get how Sam can keep his clothes on like this. Sweltering heat crawling in their throats, eating them alive. All Dean could stand to do is lay flat on his bed and groan until Sam throws a pillow at him. But Sam, small and nearly invisible when he tries, seems undaunted by the temperature, the sweat on his brow the only indication of any effect at all.

He's doing homework on the opposite bed. Dean doesn't know why he tries so hard when they're gonna be in a completely different state come a couple months, but there's a small part of Dean that admires it-- Sam's relentless integrity. His focus lies so outside of what they've been raised with that he's able to stand on his own. Dean will probably wind up an exact copy of all his dad's neuroses. 

But Sam-- Sam will be his own person by the time he's all grown up. He'll take the ground he's standing on with him, and Dean will be stuck in his dad's shadow like always. 

Dean can't help but stare at him, note all the ways he's growing up and filling out. He's always been thin and stretched, but it's been especially pronounced lately, growing taller before he gets any bigger.

But right now he's as fragile as ever. Hunched over his homework, scribbling away, lip between his teeth. His hands always move so delicately, his eyelashes flutter the way leaves fall. On particularly difficult problems he chews on the inside of his cheek and it hallows out. It always strikes Dean right in the heart. 

Dean's thought of his hallowing cheeks and delicate hands for too long now. When Sam was younger, Dean could stop himself with the truth of how innocent Sam was, but-- Well, it was only a matter of time before the world takes care of that for him. Monsters under the bed are no big deal, soon sex and porn will be just another indelicate truth. 

And something about the way he looks _now_ , budding petals and rushing blood, it drives Dean up a wall. It fucks with his head-- can hardly think straight when Sam looks him in the eye. He's so careful around him now. Like a starving wolf around sheep. 

He hates himself for it. Sammy's sweet enough to be corrupted by just the thoughts Dean has. He could never touch him without his skin molting, without Sam being completely destroyed under his hands. Dean's sure, in all his fear, that touching Sam with all of his incestuous intent would kill him on the spot. 

"If you keep groaning like that, I'm gonna kick you out."

Dean shuts up. But he keeps his eyes on Sam, the only safe way to consume him. He watches the way Sam runs his hands through his hair over and over again, tries to push it behind his ears only for it to fall back in his face. He counts the number of times Sam blinks.

If it were to come between destroying Sam and finally getting rid of the ache in his chest-- Dean's sure he'd learn to live in a state of immoral and unsatisfied want. 

\--

Sam watches the way girls swish their hips down the hallways, and consequently, the way Dean stares after them. It's the same way Sam stares at Dean most of the time. 

They've been at this school for a week, but Sam's already getting bored. There's no one here weird enough or traumatized enough to remotely tempt him into spilling his secrets, and that's all Sam likes sticking around for. He's gotten good at bullshitting most of his grades, knowing the questions before they were asked, being able to pick the answers like numbers from a rolodex. His teachers never had any serious problems with him-- at most they'd talk to him about his attitude, which was now dipping into the cynical as opposed to the boyish and optimistic. 

Sam doesn't have much to be optimistic about. Dean fits perfectly into the life their dad wants for the both of them. He has all the right skills, enjoys honing them, enjoys the long road trips and the shitty motels. He'll survive just fine self-medicated and sleep-deprived. He's worn leather, broken-in. Sam's skin is still attached, still sensitive. 

As more time goes on, Sam can see in more and more focus how different he is from both Dean and their dad. Deep wrinkles around their eyes, throats burned from the inside out a hundred times over, hearts dense and cold. Sam's already on such a different path.

He watches the way the girls swish their hips down the hallways. He practices it in front of the motel beds when Dean's out on a food run. Hands on his ass, on the small of his back while he puts one foot in front of the other. 

He thinks about Dean looking at him the way he looks at girls. He thinks about the DNA that exists in both of their veins. He thinks about tearing Dean open and drinking down the iron of his blood. Dean won't leave him for some more practiced girl then. He won't make out with girls in the backseat of the impala, won't take them out and sweet-talk them until they put out. 

Their dad takes that as pure admiration. Jokes about Sam wanting to follow in Dean's footsteps. Dean doesn't seem to buy it, but still can't quite see Sam for what he is. Hell-bent on being the monster in Dean's nightmares, on leaving a brand in the shape of his fingerprints all over Dean's skin.

Dean makes his way through the school like a hot knife through butter. There's a new girl on his hip every other day, a new girl heartbroken and hardened. Dean seems set on ruining every life he can, on leaving a storm in his wake. Sam watches, starry-eyed, wondering how Dean would treat him if he was just another girl. If he'd be just as ruthless. He tries to stop thinking about that, but it doesn't last too long.

Sam still doesn't talk to anyone from his class. He catches Dean outside the smoker's pit during every lunch period. Dean asks him questions about his classmates. Sam never has any answers. Dean starts talking about something else. Never the girls he's dating, never the ex-boyfriends who've tried to fight him after school. He moves around those subjects, hides them in the body of others. 

Though, sometimes they just sit in silence. Sam likes those days. Dean seems like he's actually breathing. Silence seems the only time anything can grow between them. Maybe that's just Sam projecting.

Dean hands over a cigarette one day. No fanfare, no lingering. Sam takes the filter between his index and thumb, pulls in a drag, puts all his willpower into not choking on the smoke Dean is so graciously offering him. 

Dean laughs and throws an arm over Sam's shoulder. The contact is so sudden and so affectionate that Sam can't even think of all the (many) reasons he shouldn't be close to Dean, all of them ending with some thread of compulsive incest. 

He leans into Dean, his head against the side of his torso, his waist against Dean's hip. There's no one around, everyone either off-campus or on the other side of the building in the cafeteria. They're alone, no eyes on them. 

Sam finally plucks up his courage. He flips around and pushes Dean up against the smooth wall of the school, pins his wrists by his hips, and reaches up on his tip-toes. He presses a kiss, sweet and clumsy, right against Dean's lips. It feels less like joining himself to Dean and more like stripping each layer of his skin back from itself, pulling his muscle away from bone. He imagines a supernova. He imagines Dean as the pure force of explosion, himself as the byproduct of such destruction. 

\--

All of Dean's restraint falls apart in that moment. Eighteen years of holding himself back, of hiding behind the ash of his Dad's cigarettes, the monsters of his dreams-- The one thing he wants for himself being so completely off-limits. The one thing his life is actually centered around being only an object of protection (never an object of desire). 

But now Sam's making himself the object of desire. He's kissing Dean behind the school, their spit soaked in the smell of smoke, their bodies mismatched, Sam straining to meet Dean's lips. The type of endearing that breaks Dean's heart clean in two. 

Sam's grip is easy to break through. Dean has his hands on either side of Sam's face with little complaint from him, kisses him the way he's learned to kiss girls behind the bleachers, in janitor's closets, always hiding somewhere. All of it was practice for this, learning how to kiss someone behind the cover of walls, learning how to claim someone without leaving any visible mark, but a clear brand on their chest wall. 

Sam's boldness folds under Dean's hands, mouth, and soon enough his knees are wavering; Dean's pulling him close, one arm wrapped around Sam's back, holding his opposite hip. His other had is on the back of his neck, cradling the curve right under his skull. No one's held Sam like this, Dean was sure, and no one would after him. The monster-truth was crawling out of Dean's throat, revealing the nagging desire to ruin Sam for anyone else but himself, to consume him completely and wholly so that no one else would _want_ to touch him. 

Their mouths part but their bodies stay flush against each other. Sam only has so much strength, half his mind clearly floating somewhere else. Dean pulls them both down, Sam in his lap, knees in the sparse grass. He'd be going back to class with stains on his jeans, a taste in his mouth, a piece of himself left right here in the dirt. 

Dean lifts Sam's chin, runs his tongue from the dip in his collarbone, past his budding adam's apple, under his jaw, and Sam sighs, eyes closed. You would've thought he'd just been touched by an angel the way he sounds. Dean grins, teeth against skin. An image flashes in his mind of tearing Sam's throat out and leaving his body to rot. It would be the only way to preserve him.

He moves his hands under Sam's shirt, a habit left over from the many rounds of backseat bingo he played at the end of dates. Sam's chest puffs out, his back arching into Dean's touch. Dean can hardly feel anything besides the lack of oxygen in his lungs and the aching in his jeans. Just having Sam here in his lap, under his hands, is nearly enough to push him over the edge. 

He pushes Sam back against the ground, dirt getting in his hair, on the skin of his back as Dean lifts his shirt higher. And, Christ, this is a fucking stupid thing to do. Besides the fact that it's _Sam_ , they're also _outside_ and Dean is only getting more desperate and narrow-minded. He should use this last remaining vestige of lucidity to pulls himself away, far away, and keep Sam at arm's distance for the rest of their lives-- He's not known for making smart decisions. 

A small wave laps in Dean's chest, saltwater or bile, a mixture of both. Cleansing him in the same way it stains him. Whatever healthy habits and avoidance were growing inside him is wilting fast, and he doesn't mind. Sam keeps pushing his chin forward, over and over again, a wave of his own. A stain of his own. 

He's undoing the button on Sam's jeans, slipping his hand under his boxers right away, and Sam whines, then immediately covers his mouth. His eyes are closed tight, his other hand digging into the ground, and it's a very bad idea to go any further. Sam can still come out of this with some semblance of innocence, but Dean can't help himself. Sam is so breakable. He can't help himself. 

He pictures snapping him apart. He pictures clawing through his skin, finding all the things he's able to keep wrapped in his cells. To know him so completely, in a way no one else could. Dean bites down on his arm; Sam yelps, his hands, covered in dirt, find Dean's scalp, tug on the short hairs best he can. 

Dean, busy at Sam's neck, slips his fingers into Sam's mouth, and he takes them with the same calm acceptance that he took the cigarette with earlier, the same gratitude at its edges. When they're covered in Sam's spit, Dean pulls down Sam's jeans with his other hand. Sam lifts his hips eagerly, no complaints, hardly any sound at all besides his small sighs and incoherent whispers. 

Lunch must be over soon, so Dean has to be quick, but before he does any more, he takes his fingers out of Sam's mouth and into his own, soaking them all over again. Sam's eyes go wide, then low and affectionate, the hint of a smile forming on his face. He reaches up and takes Dean's wrist gently in his hands, not guiding him anywhere, just recognizing the gesture. 

Dean turns his head and kisses Sam's knuckles, then reaches down and pushes a finger inside him, barely gives Sam a chance to catch his breath before he adds another one. His cock is fucking aching, his cheeks giving away a blush, but he can't pause to collect himself, can hardly savor the moment. If he's going to do this, he has to completely commit and not waste any time. They can't get caught like this. 

He undoes his own zipper with one hand, taking Sam's wrists and pinning them over his head with the other. Quickly, with little ceremony or delicacy, he finds his way into Sam, the cries and whines reaching his ears but refuse to be comprehended, feeling more like the buzz from the motel TV whenever it was turned on, the passive sound of life rather than the active plea it most likely was. He finds a rhythm and sticks to it, the blood in his body splitting into two distinct parts, one higher, one lower. 

Sam tilts his head back, a spot of blush on his neck, a few blotches on his cheeks, but the brightest part of him is his lips-- He keeps pulling them into his mouth, pooling all the blood under the fragile skin. Dean thinking about breaking through them, finding the nectar of his blood and sucking it down until he's full. Taking all of Sam for himself, selfish and corrupting. Possessing him undeniably. 

But Sam doesn't do anything to stop him, doesn't vocalize any complaints he might have, doesn't push him away. Dean, as he normally does, feels completely welcomed in Sam's space. Which makes it that much worse. 

It would be one thing if Dean was taking as much as he was with Sam protesting, at least he'd be justified in feeling like an asshole, but there was no way to cope with the blatant acceptance Sam was offering. No way to comprehend that the boy he had spent so much time fussing over was perfectly alright being completely and utterly ruined, embraced the terrible stripping of his own innocence.

Dean comes harder than he has in recent memory, feels everything at once. The dirt under his knees, the sweat on Sam's palms, the blood rushing through his body. He feels like they were born from the same womb to be connected like this-- like there is no other option for them, no other route. It was either intertwine themselves together or live half-alive. 

Sam digs his nails into Dean's back, leaves marks that'll stick around for days. His mouth is on Dean's shoulder, sucking hard. Dean can take him leaving a mark, can blame it on some random girl, thank god, but a part of him wants to wear it proudly, tell everyone his little brother was so pulled apart under him that he left a mark without even thinking about what it meant, that he came in the space between the both of them, left a stain on the bottom of his t-shirt. 

\--

They leave the school the week after. The kids had started looking at Sam like some sort of alien. Girls had stopped hanging all over Dean. It was perfect timing. Their spit-shine had worn off, their true colors had started coming through. They couldn't keep distance between themselves after they realized how perfectly their bodies locked together, after they felt the pride that came from walking down the halls together shoulder-to-shoulder. 

None of it really matters. They're gone before anyone can properly put the pieces together. John's in the driver's seat, Dean's shotgun, Sam's stretched out in the backseat, hands over his stomach pressing his fingers into the marks Dean's gotten fond of leaving there. Their image in the back window of the Impala is the last that town sees of them. 

**Author's Note:**

> ah! wincest <3 always nice to return to them lol . my brain is soup lately bc of school and life things so writing this felt Super Incoherent but i hope it was enjoyable <3 
> 
> feel free to leave comments and kudos! they mean a lot to me :D


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